This story, “Deadhead,” appeared in the August 1953 issue of Outdoor Life. You can find more stories by Jack Tooker here.
My job was driving a locomotive for the Santa Fe but my hobby was big-game hunting and guiding. The guiding was more a labor of love than anything else; I just wanted to be with people who liked hunting as much as I did. I took out such noted men as Theodore Roosevelt, Zane Grey, Rex Beach, and Fred Stone. To do it I’d sometimes have to get 30 days’ leave, but the railroad didn’t mind; it was good publicity. Other times I went out with railroaders, ranchmen, and professional hunters.
It was with a professional hunter that I undertook one of the queerest chases I’ve ever run into. The man was Cyrus (Bear) Johnson, an old friend and hunting partner, and one of the greatest of the bear men. Johnson hunted and trapped stock killers for two northern-Arizona cattle companies, the D.K. and the Bar X. He accounted for about 20 grizzlies all told, and I was in on about 12 killings myself.
This particular hunt I’m talking about took place in 1922. That summer I went out with Johnson to help run down a big male grizzly that had been destroying cattle. We were out a week, making sets that we hoped would take the big fellow. But he was as smart as a coyote. He killed a cow at Kelsey Spring, at the edge of the sycamores, and we made a set at the carcass. But he didn’t come back to it. His next kill was at Barney Spring and by the time we found it, it had been stripped clean by other animals — black bears, lions, wolves, and the like. Then a third kill — a fat steer — was found at the head of Bear Canyon near Turkey Butte, and the cowboys said the big grizzly had done it.
Well, by this time I decided that the grizzly lived in Bear Canyon, a side canyon almost as rough as the famed Sycamore, although not so deep. It was a perfect place for bears — with lots of berries and swimming pools, and plenty of game. At one time or another practically every grizzly in northern Arizona made his home in Bear Canyon.
I helped Johnson move his stuff down off the mountain to his winter cabin, which was about in the center of the area the bear was working. After that, Johnson made blind trail sets and every other kind he could think of. Several times he almost got the old boy. but not quite. The grizzly was just too smart to fall for anything he had.
After a lot of thinking, Johnson finally doped out a set he thought might work. I went out with him to place it. We killed a deer down in the Barney Spring area, hung half of it in a small oak tree, and smeared honey from a bee tree on the inside of the carcass. If there’s anything a bear likes even better than venison, it’s honey. Then we placed a trap that we’d soaked all night in a spring, using new gloves in handling it. We rubbed the fresh deer hide all over the trap, and its chain too. It seemed unlikely that a wild animal could detect human scent on it.
Our bear showed up, all right. He walked around the set. That’s all. He must have sensed that it was just too good to be true. We caught two black bears and a mountain lion. The blackies weren’t stock killers but we had to destroy them to get them out of the trap.
It was a month after that before I could join Johnson again. He had found a new place where the grizzly was kill-ing stock. This time we tried lying in wait for him with flashlights. a dangerous undertaking against a big grizzly, for the range of the flashlights was only about 50 yards. But we had to do something. By now the cowboys were kidding us as the two men being hunted by a bear.
We were almost lucky with the flash-light trick. Our grizzly was just com-ing in, one night, when the wind suddenly changed. The monster gave a snort like an elephant and we got our flashlights going in time to see his huge rear end disappearing into the undergrowth.
When fall came, Bear Johnson was still on the trail. The nights began get-ting colder. We were desperate, because time was running short before the big bear would den up for the winter. John-son hunted all the time and I helped whenever I was off duty.
But we had no luck and finally lost all trace of the grizzly. Then word came that a big bear was killing stock on the range around Flagstaff. Johnson rode over there with some light equip-ment and wasn’t surprised to find that the killer was our old enemy from Bear Canyon. It seemed likely that the bear normally holed up somewhere in the mountains,’ and from his sign and the location of the kills we figured his den must be somewhere east of the Kindrich range. He seemed to be moving toward it.
When the snow came, the grizzly got deeper into the mountains. Johnson fol-lowed his tracks until they filled up with snow, then he had to give up. He turned south to Bellem.ont, one of the coldest places in the West. There he picked up some supplies and left word for me that he was heading back to the winter cabin.
It snowed a great deal in December and we had to keep the plows out so the ti·ains could move. In January a thaw came-just enough to start water running before another freeze-up. Then more snow fell-plenty of it. I’ll never forget the night I stopped my train, the Williams and Flagstaff local, at Belle-mont after a hard run. We had fought snow all the way.
We wanted to drop off some freight at Bellemont but the agent had barricaded all the doors of the station. When he finally got one open and stepped out he looked as though he’d seen a ghost. “What ails you?” I asked. “Are the Apaches on the warpath?”
“It’s no joking matter.” the agent grumbled. “A bear tried to get in at me a while ago-a big grizzly. I thought he’d bust a door down.”
“What brand of rotgut have you been drinking? The grizzlies are all holed up in this kind of weather.”
“Well, this one isn’t. And I haven’t been drinking anything stronger than coffee. Come over here!”
My fireman, Phil Kenney, and I plowed through the snow to the plat-form, where the agent showed us fresh grizzly tracks outside the freight-room window. He pointed to a round glazed spot on the window itself, where the bear had pressed his nose and melted some of the frost and snow. “Look at that,” the agent said. “Was that bear holed up?”
I was examining the sign with considerable astonishment when the power-house attendant came running up, all out of breath. The bear had been trying to get in at him, too, he reported. The train crew, including me. were tired and wet, and wanted nothing better than to finish up the run at Williams and get into dry clothing.
I realized that a grizzly had been in Bellemont, but it seemed like a fluke that might never happen again. Anyway, I couldn’t waste much time thinking about it. for I had a schedule to meet. As I oiled my engine I noticed that snow had piled up on the plow almost to the headlight.
After pulling out of Bellemont we picked up more snow here and there. Finally we reached a curved stretch in a cut between snow-covered fields. I poked my head out the side window of the cab and was watching carefully ahead when the big light picked up something that looked like a cow on the track. I set the air but the brake shoes were ice-coated and didn’t take hold quickly. As we rolled on, my hackles rose, for what I saw on the track was nothing more or less than a big grizzly, standing erect and with his face turned to the glare of the head-light. I got only one clear look at him before a snow flurry blotted him out.
“Hey, Phil,” I yelled, “did you see anything?”
“Did I!” Kenney shouted. “I don’t know what it was, because it was 10 feet above the stack when I saw it.”
“Where did it go?”
“Sailed out over the cut.”
Well, that could have happened at this point, for the banks of the cut were no more than eight feet high. The big plow that could lift tons of snow had done the same for the grizzly.
Since we weren’t far ahead of No. 3, the limited passenger train, I didn’t dare stop. Before we reached Williams I had things sort of figured out. A deep snow, coming early in the winter, had forced the grizzly to hole up before he reached his home den. Under such circumstances, bears sometimes take to the first hole they come to. Then the thaw had come along and drowned him out, and the lights of Bellemont had attracted him.
hTe railroad right of way, having been kept clear, offered the path of least resistance to him through the fields of snow. Lord knows where he was heading when the Mikado caught up with him. It must have been the first time he ever owned up to defeat. A locomotive was a little too much for even a grizzly.
If the plow hadn’t scooped him up, he would never have lived to think it over.
Of course, at that point I didn’t even know whether he had survived. In fact I was pretty well convinced that we’d find a dead grizzly on the top of the cut. If it fitted the description of the bear that Johnson had been after, I’d snowshoe out to the winter cabin and tell him, so he could claim the reward. I took 15 days’ leave and rode the local out to the cut next morning. I dropped off, carrying a rifle and enough supplies to last me a week, and donned my snowshoes. Then I climbed to the top of the cut.
There was no bear there _ nothing but marks in the snow showing where it had landed. The piled-up snow on the plow must have softened the impact of the collision, for I couldn’t even find a spot of blood.
But the grizzly had left a plain trail southward from the cut. I guessed he was heading for D.K. country and the canyon, so I followed. By next morning the snow had crusted and I was able to make good time, reaching John-son’s cabin by noon. The old man was glad to see me, and when I told him what had happened he got as excited as I’d ever seen him. We were both eager to get on the trail, but it was too late to start out that day.
We reached the drop-off at the head of Sycamore Canyon next morning about 11 o’clock, following the distinct trail of the grizzly until it suddenly petered out. He had gone down a point so steep that a monkey might have found it tough, his body plowing through the snow for a quarter mile. Then the trail ended. From where we stood among rocks and cliffs we couldn’t spot a den anywhere, and only a den could explain the abrupt ending of the trail.
I walked out on a point of rocks, spotted something, and signaled Johnson to come up. “Do you see what I see?” I asked when he arrived.
“Sure,” he chuckled. “That’s the old boy himself sleeping there in the sun, plumb fagged out from staying up the whole winter’s night.”
“I wanted to be sure I wasn’t seeing things.”
“Jack, we got to use our heads,” Johnson said. “If we shoot now and don’t kill him stone dead he’ll try to get to us, and maybe fall to the bottom of the canyon. Then we’d never find him., not till the spring thaw anyway.” We talked it over and decided to shoot together at the count of three, then duck out of sight. Johnson was using a .33 Winchester rifle and I an 8 mm. Mauser. and we figured the two powerful cartridges should nail him down. I started to aim and heard Johnson swear aloud. The next instant I under-stood why; there was no grizzly in my sights, and by the same token there was none in his.
The cunning old warrior had sensed our presence and ducked just in the nick of time. It was hard to believe, but he had disappeared. We concluded that there must be a cave opening somewhere behind the snow, one we couldn’t see.
“You stay here,” said Johnson. “I’ll try to work around and cross to the other side. Then maybe I can see something.”
“That’s a good idea, except that you’d better let me do the climbing while you get up on that big rock and watch.”
Johnson agreed, since he was none too spry in winter. “Be sure you stay above him,” he warned. “And don’t forget the crevices and pits.”
The roundabout trip, maybe 300 yards, took me an hour, but I was finally rewarded by a glimpse of the bear among the rocks. I was 50 yards above him and could make out what I thought was his head. I felt safe enough so I aimed and fired. The grizzly came charging out of what looked like a shallow depression in the rocks, and he was roaring like a whole herd of mad bulls. I heard Johnson’s rifle crack, and the grizzly staggered. But it recovered and spotted Johnson. As it charged toward him I shot fast. Every bullet hit the mark but none was fatal. I might as well have been throwing snowballs.
Then one of Johnson’s bullets knocked the big bear down. But it was up in an instant and charging him again. To reach Johnson, it would have to climb the rock on which he was standing.
As the bear started up the rock my chance came. I fired at the spine and saw the grizzly drop to the foot of the rock. Then it was up again. I had evidently missed the vertebrae by an inch or so. I raised the Mauser to fire the la;;t shot in its magazine, and I was beginning to feel sick as I saw my partner’s peril.
Then Johnson took careful aim from his perch on the rock, and fired as coolly as though he were beheading a turkey. The grizzly lost its grip and slid off the boulder, this time for keeps. Johnson had broken its neck with that last careful shot.
The inside of that old grizzly were literally shot to pieces, and there was a bullet hole in his nose, probably made by me when I mistook his muzzle for his whole head. Any of the body shots would have killed him eventually. And when we skinned him out we found one hind leg was a huge, black bruise, testimony to his collision with the plow.
Read Next: We Tracked Down a Killer Grizzly — and It Almost Ended in Tragedy
We roped together a sled of tree limbs and dragged the hide back to Johnson’s cabin. Considering the bounty, it was a valuable piece of deadhead freight. And for a long time after that my hackles would rise whenever I’d run through the curving cut where the game old griizzly had reared up, ready to tackle a locomotive.
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